


Made For You

by kirschtrash



Series: Musical Musings [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barista Marco Bott, Coffee Shops, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hella fluffy, M/M, POV Jean Kirstein, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, birthday present for boysblush, cameo by eren yeager, enjoy this!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 08:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5085538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirschtrash/pseuds/kirschtrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jean almost doubts his decision, to try out another, rather insignificant coffee shop-</p><p>-until he met a freckled barista, with a smile that could match the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made For You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queerioes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerioes/gifts).



> So, here's a late, late present for [boysblush!](http://boysblush.tumblr.com/) Happy birthday to you! Hope you enjoy this fluffy little fic! c:

[inspired by this song](https://cf-media.sndcdn.com/i3OADrdWTTJU.128.mp3?Policy=eyJTdGF0ZW1lbnQiOlt7IlJlc291cmNlIjoiKjovL2NmLW1lZGlhLnNuZGNkbi5jb20vaTNPQURyZFdUVEpVLjEyOC5tcDMiLCJDb25kaXRpb24iOnsiRGF0ZUxlc3NUaGFuIjp7IkFXUzpFcG9jaFRpbWUiOjE0NDU5MDI2Mzh9fX1dfQ__&Signature=s9y7nB1Olh8raFOVWndHK58npLmqunbAv9uIcTTXpwNNuv3OmBBlxS2~D37KyQZh3-ZxBynLJ~NqgnNG7EP0CGXQxztu88G-WEvKL2LxL6Y0c913L-RJr7MM5Y1KiMU-pTZMw3~f6SPZLBf3m2ZSIHHASnKte6BEadHXMHDi88dFPWsVOJRKB-7HzX5KSTp1HLja4sYphbpjF3RyQnok1GbimLOISsvoG0eP6E4yCoPlopS7ERAJugp2LcN02dS2YDC7F~lXxyMCr-O7QXCJ-Y6-9woI7jcMeAWG62Jb3kdW7pnxFIRBjEMGI6UZPLs7JA~7PAHhUMk5GGvyUDRHuQ__&Key-Pair-Id=APKAJAGZ7VMH2PFPW6UQ)

 

* * *

 

 

_**Made For You** _

 

 _Shit_ , he cursed to himself. Wherever he looked, every other coffee shop was filled with customers to the brim. None of them even had enough _breathing space_ , let alone space to order a cup of coffee. How could he get his dose of caffeine like that?  
Grumbling to himself, he looked up and down the footpath, trying to find some shop out of desperation. _Any shop would do me good,_ he thought, as he walked on and on, scanning for any signs that showed, ‘ _hey, get your daily dose of caffeine here!_ ’

After a while of aimless walking, he spotted a small, vintage-looking shop. He stopped to read it's sign. It did say ‘ _coffee shop_ ’. But it didn’t look that much significant to him; _maybe they would end up making shitty coffee_ , he doubted. Life was too damn short for that.

But he needed _something_. So finally, he turned, and reached for the bronze door knob. With a slight push, he opened the door. Warmth rushed over him, and as he entered the place, he could smell the scent of coffee in the air - something he loved.

When he reached the counter, he met a freckled man, with a smile as bright as the sun. He had to blink a few times, just to fathom it all. But the other worker had seemed unfazed. With a warm hand extended out to him, he chirped:

“Welcome to _‘The Little Coffee Shop’_! I’m Marco!”

He stared at the barista a moment longer, before reaching out, grabbing for his hand. They held each other’s grasps tightly. His skin was a lot warmer than he had expected.

“I’m Jean,” he replied. The barista nodded, eyes sparkling.

Extracting his hand to himself, the worker asked, “What would you like to order?”

“I, uh… well, the other cafés were full, so I came here. I’m kinda new, so…”

He had caught on well enough; he returned that warm smile again, and said, “That’s okay! Could I offer you our special black coffee? It’s everyone’s favorite choice these days!”

Jean nodded, and instantly, the freckled man turned around, vanishing behind a dark door - that must have led to the kitchens.

As he seated himself upon the leather seat, just before the counter, Jean chanced a glance around him. The cafe was a lot smaller than the other cafes he had been to; the others were bigger, clogged with too many tables and chairs, and were lit somewhat dimly. But “ _The Little Coffee Shop_ ” seemed to be quite the opposite; tables and chairs were spaced apart, and the glassed windows were wide open, letting in as much sunlight in as was possible. Behind the counter, there were rows and rows of jars lined against each other, each of them filled with coffee beans. In random intervals, he even spied a few coffee mugs, each of a different size. It all radiated a creative vibe - it felt _nice_.

Soon, the waiter arrived, with a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. When Jean looked at it, he noticed - it had a white, milky pattern over it, shaped like a feather.

The barista caught him looking. He ran a nervous hand through his hair sheepishly, and said:

“Uh, well, it’s a policy here that every cup of coffee has to have some art in it, for the customers to enjoy aesthetically but - um, I’m sort of new, so it won’t be as great as the others...”

But Jean only shook his head - in _wonder_. All he could see was how the white trails of milk slowly cut across the blackness of his coffee. The patterns they created, as light blended in with the dark, were _marvelous_ ; and the way he had somehow managed to created a feather out of milk was truly commendable, _artistic_.

“Are you kidding?” Jean blurted out, “This is… _amazing_ , actually.”

At that, the freckled waiter - or, Marco - looked up. He stopped rubbing his neck, and instead, stared at him, with a pair of brown, earnest eyes, and a soft smile.

That day, he had thanked him.

* * *

 

The first time slowly fell under the many other times he visited that little cafe. It had begun to feel as if he had been going there almost everyday.

Whenever he’d visit there, he’d get to see that same barista, standing behind the counter ever so proudly. He’d make Jean try something different - coffee, tea, or chai - and with it, he’d even get to try his talents with foam art. And every day he’d go there, Jean would marvel at his work. It seemed as if he were improving by the _hour_ ; one day he’d try making a feather with milk, and the other times, he’d try making three at a time. Sometimes, he’d even push his luck to use some more foam - managing to pull off a picture of a kitten, one day, with it’s paws jutting out of the coffee mug.

“Wow, man,” he had said one day, when Marco once again showed his true colors with foam and cream, “you’re getting better at it everyday!”

Marco beamed at him in response. He cocked his head to one side, and had said, “Thanks! You never know, someday it might be handy.”

Jean nodded in reply, holding up his mug in a victorious gesture. Despite the crisp wind that threatened to break summer into autumn, he never felt that warm before.  
Over the course of their visits, everyday Jean got to learn a little bit more about that cheerful barista - Marco; how his full name was Marco Bodt, and how he had only recently graduated from college. He told him about his likes, dislikes, pet peeves - everything. He even told him about how he had no real dream to be someone big, or anything.

“I never had any dream to be a _capital-S Someone_ ,” he had said, one day.

Jean lifted his gaze from his slice of chocolate cake, and looked at Marco. Without a second thought, he asked, “But why? Don’t we all have someone we want to be? Someone we want to be in the future, that we’d be... proud of?”

The freckled barista did something else in reply; he cocked his head to one side, and rolled his eyes in thought, tongue poking the inside of his cheek - a habit Jean had noted of his, whenever he’d be thinking.

After a few moments’ pause, he looked back at Jean. “Is it really _n_ ne to believe that?” he had asked, “Well, I don’t know, for me, the thought’s always been a little different...”

He shrugged, before returning to his cake, eating the last bits of moist crumbs. But Marco wasn’t finished yet:

“Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll try thinking about it, and someday, I’ll let you know why. Deal?”

Jean couldn’t help squinting at him: this man, whom he had never known until only a few weeks ago, conversed with him as if they had known each other for years.  
But he didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t mind at all.

Jean smirked. “Deal,” he confirmed, extending a hand. Just as he had expected, the barista met him halfway, gripping him tight, as they shook on it.

That day, when he left the place, he could not help the way a certain kind of curiosity tugged at his heart.

* * *

 

That tugging was damn near _persistent_.

Days blended into months, and Jean refused to miss a single visit to the little coffee shop.

He could have said that maybe he was just obsessed with the coffee art they kept up everyday. Who could hate such artful ways, in which they could create tiny masterpieces with just a few drops of milk and cream? He could go on forever, just gushing over how much love and effort they put into each cup they served.  
He could say that he was obsessed with how cozy the whole cafe felt; the wooden walls and floors, along with the leather seats, topped with the constant aroma of freshly ground coffee made the whole place feel so warm and comforting; it made him sigh just at the thought of it.

He could have given those reasons to explain his sudden urge to go to the coffee shop - he could. But whenever he did, one part of him told him something else; a part of him whispered to him, of how a particular barista made his each and everyday better, one who stood before the counter everyday, with tanned skin scattered with as many freckles as the night sky would have stars, and a smile that could brighten a rainy day.

It also had a lot to do with the deal he made him promise.

Whenever he’d enter the folds of the tiny shop, he’d expect the barista to glance up, smile, and spill the deal. But whenever he would go, he’d get that glance, he’d get that smile - but he’d never get that deal.  
Maybe Marco forgot, Jean’s mind had justified, but still, it annoyed him; what made that waiter feel so free, so calm when it came to making a name for himself? What made him believe that he didn’t need an ambition? It wasn’t as if it were wrong, but still - all Jean wanted to know was what made that freckled barista, him? What made Marco who he was?

 

* * *

 

As the summer finally dragged in the cold winds of autumn, Jean headed to “ _The Little Coffee Shop_ ” with a searing dedication - to make Marco spill out what he had promised. Even if it required force; he had to know. _Maybe it’ll help me quench this damned obsession_ , he decided himself.

But when he opened those wooden doors, he scanned the entire shop.

There was no Marco to be seen.

A few feet away from him, he spied another worker, who stood before the counter in place of him. He was going through his phone, when he approached him.

He cleared his throat. “Hello, um - could I know where’s Marco…?”

The new waiter lifted his half-lidded gaze somewhat lazily, and bore his green eyes into his amber ones. Tiredly, he spoke: “Marco’s taken a leave for a few days.”

“To where? How long?”

“Hell if I know. You wanna order anything?”

Jean pouted at that, before giving in. As he waited for his order of a cup of regular coffee, he sat at a solitary table. His chin in his hands, he sighed: _where did he go?_ he thought, and why all of a sudden, too? Did something bad happen to him…?

Soon, he was served his coffee. When he looked down at it almost subconsciously, he suppressed a disgruntled sigh; all it was adorned with was a wonky smiley face. One could practically tell how tired and bored that guy must have felt.  
Jean sighed again, as he grudgingly lifted his cup to his lips. _Well, he’s got a life of his own_ , he reassured himself. _He’ll be back before you know it!_

 

But whenever he came, he’d meet the absence of that freckled barista. Everyday, he’d ask of Marco’s whereabouts, and everyday, he’d get the same reply - “ _he’s gone for a few days._ ”

Jean had tried his best to wait. He had tried to understand, that Marco probably wanted a break of his own. Maybe he fell ill, or he just wanted a few days off, just to rest a bit. His absence was surely justified!

But even so, there was no avoiding how everything suddenly felt so dull, without him there; the cafe felt foreign, the aroma around him that he once loved grew too pungent for his liking, and the coffee a bit too bitter. Even the creativity started to lose its flair; the regular swirls of milk through his coffee were nowhere near as perfect and artistic as Marco’s efforts.  
There was no denying how he started feeling those tiny differences weigh him down. As if a cup of tea was missing just a dash of milk to make it perfect, the cafe felt odd, felt _incomplete_ without his radiant presence.

Whenever sat alone in his usual place in front of the counter, he started understanding himself more. Maybe what he once called an ‘ _obsession_ ’ wasn’t that anymore. An obsession would burn up like a heated fire, but would die out just as quick. But the freckled barista's presence kept thickening around Jean till he was left craving for that bright smile again - that suggested something _else_ entirely, something more.

He could feel how everything grew colder as the days passed by. He could blame the weather for it. But his heart said something else.

* * *

 

Two weeks later, a light shower fell all over the city. When Jean made his way towards the cafe once more, he grumbled as the cold droplets clung to his skin. He hugged his jacket around himself tighter, trying to ward off the wretched cold.

After a few minutes’ walk, he paused right in front of the shop. He stared at the little sign above it: “ _The Little Coffee Shop_ ”, it read, in a cursive style of writing. The sight stabbed in Jean a feeling of sudden nostalgia, as he was reminded of the first time he ever set foot inside there, the first time he ever met that barista.

He was almost about to walk on, almost half convinced that maybe he wouldn’t come even today. He had walked a few paces ahead - until he caught sight of a familiar, freckled man.

When he entered the shop, he could have whooped with joy - there he was, back there again, healthy as ever. He felt a sigh escape his lips, until Marco turned to look at him.

There was something… _different._

He didn’t look like his joyous self. Though he tried smiling at him, it didn’t quite reach his heart. His shoulders felt tensed, and even his greeting felt odd, it felt weird. When he met his eyes, they seemed bright as ever - but one could even see how well he masked a melancholic feeling beneath it all.

He couldn’t help himself: “Hey, is everything okay?” he asked.

“Sure, I’m fine,” was Marco’s hasty reply.

He didn’t feel convinced enough, but Jean didn’t budge him more. Once again, he fell to his regular seat, and waited for Marco to bring his order of a cup of coffee, with a slice of cake. Everything should have fallen back to normal, with Marco back in business, but it still felt different. Everything still felt strained, odd, unfamiliar.

When Marco came back with a steaming cup in one hand and a plate in the other, he sat up straighter. With a silent clink, he placed the cup in front of Jean, with a simple feather painted over his coffee with cream. He smiled at it - God, how had he missed that.  
But it soon fell, when Jean noticed Marco’s trembling fingers.

Without thinking twice, he leaned in, and grabbed his hand tight.

“Marco, something isn’t right-” he started.

“I said I’m fine.”

“ _Marco_ ,” he demanded, squeezing his fingers tight. When he said that, he stopped fighting.

Licking his lips, he continued softly, “Let me help.”

Marco didn’t quite meet his gaze; all he did was train them down, staring at the cup of coffee steaming before him. But he didn’t have any more fight left in him. Defeated, he sighed, running a hand through his black hair.

With that, he nodded.

 

There were not many people in the cafe to begin with, so it was easy for Marco to get a few minutes’ break, With that, the two made their way towards a lone table, seated in the farthest corner of the whole shop. A window showed the busy world beyond just beside them; people hid themselves under their umbrellas, hastily crossing the roads, some busying themselves with chatter, or just with their thoughts. The rain still ran down, the tiny droplets turning into a mass of rivulets as they fell against the cool glass.

Marco sat across from Jean, bringing in a cup of coffee for himself, to match Jean’s. When he sat himself, he literally _sagged_ ; as he sighed, it seemed as if he had been holding a weight for too long. He looked tired; it broke Jean’s heart to see him that way.  
But he let him take his time to say whatever he could, whenever he could. The way he stared at his hands, tied in his lap nervously, showed how jittery he was, and how lost he must have felt.

Jean tried his luck: “Are y-you doing okay…?”

At that, Marco smiled a sad smile. “I - I think I am. I just-” he leaned back against his leather seat, and sighed again. “Things got a little… rough, with my boyfriend a few days ago, and he ended up breaking up with me.”

Jean stilled at that. Break up… with _him_? Someone broke up with a guy who could outshine the fucking sun?

“B-but why?”

He laughed tiredly at that, as he said, “Because he found someone else - he found someone better.”

Jean could not find it in himself to try to reply, so all he could do was nod. He had never known what it must have felt like to be truly replaced by someone so swiftly, so easily, that they soon forget how important someone once was. He had never felt that, but he sure knew it must have felt shitty. And it was something Marco did not deserve at all.

“It’s not as if I’m still cryin’ about it,” he said after a while, softly, “but yeah, it did hurt. That’s why I didn’t come for so long.”

“That guy must be a downright prick,” Jean muttered.

Marco chuckled at that, as he spoke, “Well, yeah, he sort of was. So I’m trying my best to get better, I guess...”

Jean nodded, as he stared at his own cup of coffee, still left untouched. _Could he be…?_

The thought left his mind as soon as it came, when Marco spoke up:

“Besides, I’ve finally come up with an answer to your question.”

Jean looked up in surprise, but he was already speaking:

“See, the thing is that - that yeah, everyone wants to be someone great. Everyone wants to be someone with a big name, someone worth something. And that kind of ambitious attitude, it’s… it’s _great_! But then… I don’t know, to _me_ , it always felt as if it were limiting me down.  
“The thought always seemed to me as ‘ _hey, you’re not good, so be someone better_ ’. Like, that is not how I wanna live my life, y’know?”

His coffee must have gone cold, but Jean was too far gone to notice, or even care.

“I wanna be able to like the way I am,” Marco continued, “I don’t wanna fit some cookie-cutter cut-out, just to be ‘ _great_ ’, because what does it matter if _I_ don’t want it? What if I’m fine with a simple name? Like this, I’m free to do whatever I want. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. I’ve got only one life to live, I can’t waste it on aiming to be someone I don’t wanna be.  
“Because, in the end, I like serving people. I like giving people what they like, with enough effort to see them smile. I like making other people happy that way - it makes _me_ happy.” He paused, looking outside the window. The way the rushing drops of water cast shadows over his freckled cheeks, one would think he was actually crying.

But all he did was sniffle softly, before looking away, instead staring at his hands again.

He spoke again, “What frustrates me is that- that my boyfriend just expected me to be greater, to be someone I’m just not. He just wouldn’t accept me as I am. And it did hurt a little.”

The pause that ensued later was suffocating; it felt fragile, like a slight gust or sudden movement would break it into shards. Jean wanted to end it, but he didn’t know how.

Gulping dryly, he tried doing something he had only imagined himself doing. He leaned across the table, one hand outstretched. His fingers found Marco’s spare ones, and gripped them tight.

“I’m sorry if I can’t be of any real help, but…” Jean started, “but know, that- that if he can’t accept you the way you are, then he isn’t worth your time. You’re quite awesome at making people smile - if he can’t appreciate that, then he’s a fuckin’ loser.”

He had never planned that speech of his, but it sure felt like that. When he subconsciously squeezed his warm fingers around his again, he slowly felt something in his chest unravel - the place where his obsession had once laid.

Marco smiled softly, before looking up at him. Brown eyes met amber ones, as the rain finally stopped, and the grey clouds gave way to sunlight. Heated rays fell in the shop, until they illuminated his eyes into a color so dark, deep and mesmerizing, he couldn’t help but stare at them longer. How could such simple eyes shine so bright?

“Th-thank you, Jean. No one has cared as much as you have. I-I’m grateful,” he told him, his voice soft and delicate. He returned a tight squeeze to his hand, before smiling.

There was no denying how his heart jumped in his chest when he saw that. There was no denying how the tight tangle of obsessive thoughts slowly unraveled, until he was truly clear about what he felt.

* * *

 

 _Today is the day_ , Jean thought.

That day, Jean had finally decided to ask Marco out.

It had taken him a week to prepare himself. Countless speeches written down and thrown away, and countless attempts at speaking said speeches aloud, he finally found the gall to get up, walk to Marco, and say the words: I like you.

_I like you._

The mere thought made Jean burn up. Even as he crossed the road with that simple sentence in his mind, he resisted the urge to smother his face with his hands in embarrassment. _God, how will I survive?_ he thought.

As his feet touched the grey footpath, he stopped. Only a few blocks more, and I’ll reach that cafe; only a few steps more, and I’ll meet him - only a few more moments, and I’ll tell him.

 _Will he return those feelings?_ someone whispered in his mind.

Jean stared a little more. He felt his vision focus more, as he thought, _I’ll never know until I try._

Inhaling deeply, he wrapped his black coat around him tighter. With firm feet and an even firmer resolve, he walked on, closing the distance.

Soon enough, he reached the coffee shop. He’d been going there for months, and even then, it felt as if he were going there the first time. With trembling fingers, he pushed the door open.

He didn’t have a chance to speak, for Marco spoke first:

“Hey, Jean! _C’mere_!”

He sounded really excited. When he saw him at the counter, he saw how he drummed his fingers against the tabletop eagerly, waiting for Jean.

Shrugging, he neared the counter, and spoke, “Wow, you sure sound _ecstatic_ , Marco.”

“Oh, shut up,” he said, before leaning really,  _really_ close into Jean’s space, until he could smell his deodorant, and see how there were specks of gold in his brown eyes, and make out senseless patterns across his skin with his freckles-

Before Jean would pass out, Marco said, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Jean physically stuttered.

“A- a _surprise_?”

Marco nodded enthusiastically. But then, without another word, he turned around, heading for the kitchen.

Jean just stood there, speechless. What surprise would he have for him? _What could it be?_

 _I’ll never know until I_ wait _, in this case_ , was all he thought, as he seated himself in his chair.

Five minutes later, Marco arrived. As usual, he held a steaming coffee cup in one hand, but something else in his other one-

“A _foam gun_?” Jean asked.

Marco nodded again, “Yep. We don’t have many customers today, so I can use this.”

“But what is this about-”

“ _Shush_ ,” he urged, “You’ll know soon, Jean.”

Jean tried not to sigh at the way he said his name, instead looking at him placing the cup on the table gently. Then he lifted the gleaming foam gun in both his hands, and started shaking it vigorously.

“Uh-um, are you _sure_ this is okay?”

“Positive!” he chirped, as he shook it a little more. The pure excitement he showed, like a toddler getting candy, made him smile unconditionally.

After a few more shakes, he stopped. He lowered the nozzle into the cup, and puffed in a squirt of fluffy cream into his drink.  
It worked quite right in the beginning, until it started wheezing moments later, coughing out air.

Marco’s eyebrows knitted in worry. “Hm, th-that’s strange. That didn’t happen the last time.”

 _Tsk_ -ing to himself, he lifted the foam gun again, saying, “I’ll just shake it again.”

“Um, Marco, I’ve got a bad feeling about this-” Jean started.

“Hey, let me handle this! I’ve got this in the bag,” was all he said, as he shook it more. Once he was done, he lowered it again, and this time, pressed it harder than he did before.

What came next was sudden.

As soon as he pressed it, a mini- _explosion_ happened; spurts of foam burst out of the tiny nozzle with such great force, that it ended up splattering all over both the spectators, not missing an inch of bare skin.  
A few minutes passed in steely silence, as both of them stared at the utter mess of spilled coffee, and soggy foam on the tabletop, and over themselves.

Then, in the din of it all, Jean started laughing. He could not help himself; he covered his mouth with his hands, and cackled. The whole cinematic feeling it had, seeing him shake the foam gun vigorously, and then _boom_ \- all of a sudden, the both of them were covered in cool foam and warm drips of coffee. It was _hilarious_.

Wiping the tears of mirth out of his eyes, he looked up. Marco looked like the exact opposite of what Jean must have been looking like; his gaze was cast down, as he bit his lower lip, playing with his fingers again. He looked close to crying.

Jean stopped laughing. “H-hey, Marco, what’s wrong?”

“N-nothing.”

“Oh, c’mon, you can try again-”

“It’s not _that_ ,” he hissed.

Jean was taken aback by his sudden ferocity. _If not this, then what is it?_

“What’s wrong, then?”

Marco sighed, as he mumbled, “This isn’t making it easier…”

“Making _what_ easier?” he demanded back, “C’mon, Marco, spit it out!”

Marco paused for another moment, before breathing in deeply.

“I - I uh… I wanted to tell you something,” he began slowly, not meeting his eyes.

_Tell me something…?_

He continued, “And I thought that making something new, showing you how I improved a bit more with the foam art, would make it easier for me, but hell, it’s making it _harder_.” He rubbed his forehead, laughing a little.

But he recovered soon, for he said, “See- I - um - ever since you came here, since the first time, you’ve somehow made me do my job easier. You’ve… you’ve made my job more fun to do. First, I- I thought that it was just me, just me overthinking it- but then y-you helped me that day, when it was raining. You told me that I’m worth something, even if I- I don’t want to have a big name. And no one's ever told me that before. I just… Like, I _knew_ you were someone different.  
And not just that, but you’re smart too; and funny, and kind, and _real_ , and you always appreciate my coffee art even when I fuck up bad. I mean, I could go on and on. And I…”

Finally, he looked up at Jean. With burning eyes, he confessed, in a dedicated voice:

“I want to know you more. And I think I really _really likeyousowillyougooutwithme_?”

In the end, he screwed his eyes shut, physically bracing himself for impact.

Jean’s eyes were blown wide, and his mouth left hanging. He was still in denial; was he confessing to him? Did he actually say all of that?

Did Marco Bodt return those same feelings that Jean felt?

Again, he couldn’t help himself; he started giggling again, shoulders quaking. It was hard not to; when his crush stood there in front of him with coffee and foam covering his skin, when his crush looked so downright cute like that, with a pretty blush creeping up his neck, when his crush just confessed to him that _hey, I like you too_ \- he couldn’t help but burst with joy.

But when Marco got muffled giggles instead of a proper response, his shoulders slumped in the cutest possible way.

“You shouldn’t be _laughing_!” he fumed, stomping his foot.

Jean shook his head, trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed this much, felt this _happy_.

“Fine, if you wanted to say no, then-”

But Jean cut him off - with his lips pressed to his.

The kiss could have been a short one, until Marco tilted his head a little, held his jaw in his hand softly, and kissed him back.  
Jean sighed through his nose, his legs turning into jelly when he felt Marco do the same. Their lips moved in perfect sync, and Jean could even taste the lingering drops of sweet cream and bitter coffee that must have fallen on his lips. God, he could do that forever.

After what felt like forever, the two broke apart slowly, both of them lingering for just another brush of sensitive lips.

Jean was the first one to open his eyes, finding Marco’s brown eyes still closed, still dazed. Cheekily, he kissed the corner of his mouth softly, before leaning in near his ear, whispering:

“That was a _yes_ , y’know.”

Marco giggled - a giggle so bubbly and lively, it made Jean do the same, until they both were laughing at nothing, except at the remnants of a coffee-esque explosion, and a kiss that still tingled their lips.

After a long pause filled with nervous laughter (and a few too many kisses), Jean asked, “What did you want to make with that foam gun, though?”

Marco visibly blushed at that. Damn, he could get used to that.

“T-that was, uh- I wanted to make a heart out of foam. And then… uhm, then give it to you.”

Jean just stared at Marco, dumbfounded.

Then, he spoke the choicest of words:

“God, Marco, you’re so damn _cheesy_.”

“Sh-shut up!”

He laughed again, kissing Marco’s burning cheeks to help soothe him.

When his lips reached his ear again, he whispered:

“Never said I didn’t like it.”

Marco spluttered, burning up even more.

“G-god, Jean,” he stuttered, “This is a public place!”

Jean laughed again, pinching his cheek playfully, before letting him clean up their mess ‘ _before the manager will catch me_ ’, as Marco put it.

 

When his shift was done, the two of them left the cafe together, with their hands entwined around each other’s, awaiting their perfect first date.

 

*

 

Thinking back to that day, he recalled having second-guessed himself, before entering “ _The Little Coffee Shop_ ” for the first time. He remembered having doubted his decision of ever going to that place, going there only as an act of desperation for a good cup of caffeine.  
But who knew he’d end up meeting a freckled barista, who could light up his entire week, with just a smile? Who knew he’d end up meeting - and befriending - someone like Marco, for whom he’d one day fall for, and then someday, share a first kiss to their endless others, in that fortunate cafe?

Jean knew better than to doubt that decision. He never could.

**Author's Note:**

> aah i hope i didnt deviate too much from the prompt! I was inspired to do a cute confession by watching the ending of fmab lolll  
> Do comment if you can! I appreciate any constructive criticism you want to share - im up for it! Thank u for reading! <3
> 
> Follow my [twitter](https://twitter.com/kirschtrash) or my [tumblr](http://captaink-irschtein.tumblr.com/) for more! c:


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